


these long nights

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [101]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Implied past torture, M/M, Night Terrors, Nightmares, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28438926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [101]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	these long nights

A nightmare, Maxwell recognized. It was just a nightmare.

For a moment there he had startled awake half expecting attacking hounds, or rampaging giant attacks or some other horrid situation to break through the faint bit of peace he had finally achieved earlier this night, his doze having dropped into real sleep undisturbed by dreams for the first time in a good long while. The day before had been rough, what with the sudden need to start getting ready for a harsh winter, and the old former Nightmare King was not looking forward to the short days and long nights.

Less so, to the nightmares that would soon plague camp. The dark had never quite upset him like it did the others, not even when he had been using a different name and had been from an entirely different plane of reality, but winter always had such an effect on the other survivors of the Constant. He had made it that way, after all, and for all the changes the Queen has enacted there was very little of the foundation he had once set down that needed to be repaved.

For all the sparks of pride still residing in his chest for his past reign, Maxwell would never be able to find satisfaction in the terrors that haunted the others as consequence. Once upon a time, maybe, but the entertainment has long waned and there was nothing in him but shamed grief and that horrid nagging worry and concern whenever he had to face it.

Worse, when it was Wilson who became plagued by such things. The fact that Maxwell slept badly in the first place made waking to the sounds of choked down cries a far faster affair than compared to being shaken awake to deal with some approaching threat or other. 

Their shared tent was dark, probably only embers left in the camp fire pit by now, but the thermals stones set about still had heat, faint light, and enough for Maxwell to blink awake, blurry eyed and mildly irritated at losing the rest he had almost achieved, but that got wiped out fairly quickly.

Wilson was up, curled in on himself, the mass of his wild hair even more rough and tumbled as he ran his claws through it, shaking terribly and letting out shuttered sounds that almost sounded like _whimpers._

It was enough for the old Nightmare King to sit up, limbs aching and creaking and still weighed down by almost sleep, but a cut off sob shot sharp through his chest, anchored to the thing that was his heart and woke him far faster than anything else ever really could. Experience tugged at him, how many nightmares has he himself woken from, how many times has he awoken to see Wilson suffering such things, but then his partner shuddered and pulled his knees up, tucking his head down with a sobbing whimper that bit at whatever was left in Maxwell's chest and dragged him into raising his hands, sudden alertfulness, sudden painful awareness as the last of the sleep was shredded from him.

Experience told him to do otherwise, but whatever it was that bound them together spoke louder; Maxwell swallowed down the exhaustion, thick worry on his tongue, and it would do him ill waking so suddenly and into the stress tensing his mind and body but all his focus was narrowed down upon the man shaking beside him.

It was stupid, what he did, and he should know better by now.

But the distress had spread, thick in the air as Wilson started to sob, and it infected him through those cracks in his crumbling barrier and Maxwell made that vain attempt to offer his comfort, as unwieldy and pathetic as it always was.

"Wilson-"

It should have been expected, when the other man jerked away from him, leaned back with a sobbing hiss of strained sound. He should have known better, when the face flashed at him was bared into a crooked wobbling fear snarl, eyes wide and glazed in half remembered dreams, wild hair and curled claws and that, that familiar expression glared shakily at him.

He's seen it before, of course. Maxwell knew all the faces of those he had once ruled over, and he knew them intimately well in the worst of ways.

 _ **"Back off!"**_ Wilson hissed, scrambled back, away from him, tense and trembling and claws already extended, clenching and unclenching in spasms, wide eyes flashing as if to look for a nearby weapon, everything in him on alert and hostile. _**"Get away from me!"**_

His mistake glared him in the face, trembling and bared in a threatening snarl, and Wilson couldn't stand up fully in the tents small space but he crouched there under the wreath of haunting nightmares and Maxwell recognized his mistake a bit too late.

"It's, Wilson it's alright, I-"

 _ **"Shut the fuck up!"**_

That made him flinch, the sheer level of hatred spat out at him, but Maxwell has gone through this before, was already internally scolding himself in that brash vein of _concern_ that had taken over, _of course his touch wouldn't bring comfort-_

Maxwell carefully, slowly, backed off to the other side of the tent, allowing that foot or so of space between them, but there was always that level of vitriol and hatred that wavered in a disoriented haze through the other man's voice when he was like this, shaky and filled with boiling rage, and it was always enough to make his chest ache.

Waking from sleep to this was a bit much, as always, and a part of him wanted to admonish himself for not expecting it by now. How many times has he been able to handle a night terror on his own?

How many times has he pushed it with Wilson and near got killed for not treading carefully, saying the wrong things, moving too fast or too slow? It's been too long since his time on the Throne, only the dreams gave him frequent reminders of what it was like, what _he_ was like, yet Wilson oftentimes remembered a little too clearly, a little too well.

And there was very little Maxwell could do about it.

The other man shivered, trembling and still strung tight on a wire, jaw grit hard and glazed eyes wild, half unseeing, and even with the low lighting Maxwell felt something twist inside his chest at the sight of tear trails, the haggard gasping breaths. He didn't move from where he had scooted himself, still and quiet and half curled in, taking as little space as possible, and while it visibly didn't seem to calm the other man Wilson was taking deeper, shuddering breaths as the silent seconds ticked on by.

Trial and error, and almost getting killed by the night terrorized delusioned man multiple times has given him enough experience and know how on how to avoid violent confrontation. While a part of him ached to get close, try to reach out and speak words to remind him of reality, of how dreams were just dreams, night terrors were not so easy to dispel by word and comfort alone.

Maxwell would rather not remember how many times he's died under the hands of someone not fully aware, especially not someone he felt a bit too much for. He'd rather not curse Wilson with one more death on his hands, deserved or not it never mattered, and so Maxwell sat and waited for the terrors to end.

Even under half sleep, Wilson was stronger than him, and eventually the dreams and memories should leave him back into being lucid once again. He just had to wait out the terrors first.

It didn't take as long as it used to, at the very least. Wilson shook, trembled as his sightless gaze swung around the tent, swaying and panicked, confused, and Maxwell watched as his partner started to, very slowly, become lucid.

He frequently looked to his hands, spread his dull claws and stared at them, for so long and so hard, and Maxwell vaguely remembered the half asleep mumbles the man had once said against him, dozing against his shoulder by the flickering low campfire-

_"In my dreams, my hands are my own."_

It wasn't Maxwell's fault, what had changed that, nor did he remember what had been the actual cause, but nonetheless guilt and bitter shame knotted up in his chest at the thought, at the realization. His own nerves were quite frayed after the Throne, some parts of this body were never to feel or touch the real world in the same way again, and yet Wilson was cursed in a far more encompassing way.

He may not have been the one to cause it, and yet he knew there were far worse things Wilson remembered, haunting familiar faced monsters that still lingered through his mind and memories. When the man raised his exhausted, glazed eyes to stare, lock gazes with him, Maxwell could only see the twisting terror and disgust that flickered the edges of his partners face.

Then Wilson looked away, confused mind still drowning under the nightmares effects, and Maxwell knew if he looked up to the tent ceiling, if there had been a light on outside, he knew he'd see the dragging impressions of shadows, of the ever hungry Them, pressing in and threatening with Their meal being so close yet so far away.

His presence was good enough deterrent for now, no slithering leeches of shadow and gluttony would crawl Their way in with him awake. Wilson huffed, the low harsh growl of his voice as he muttered incomprehensibly to himself, fast and raw as he coughed and cleared his throat in heavy shakes and shivers, and Maxwell watched as the man he cared all too much about finally started to curl in on himself, head in his hands and dull claws threaded to his tangled greasy hair.

He didn't relax just yet, however; experience and memory had him stay still, stay quite, waiting. Biting down on that reflex, that need to offer aid, to comfort and hold and tug back the man from his terrible memories, and Maxwell could wish all he wanted but death memories haunted him and he knew all too well how easy, how fast it was to be strangled to death by such roughened hands.

There was no ill will in him for such things, not anymore, only a knowledgeable patience, and so Maxwell sat back and watched, waited, quiet and getting colder, as his partner fought his own internal nightmares alone.

He didn't quite know how long it took, the man going quiet, holding his head in his hands, both sitting opposite each other in this horrid excuse of a stinking tent, but the first sign of lucidity came when Wilson slowly uncurled himself, unhooked his claws from his hair, and when he raised his head, his face was a mess of tear trails and snot and dark, exhausted lines-

But his eyes were clear once more, and when they landed upon Maxwell, took note of his curled in, still form, Wilson blinked, opened then closed his mouth for a silent, heavy moment, and finally shook his head and swiped haphazardly at his face.

"It..it was…" His voice was rough, raw from the strain, and he hiccuped a low sound, sniffled as the man folded his knees up tighter, scrubbed at his eyes with a gaze that did not meet with Maxwell's own. "...Sorry. Just a..just a nightmare."

Maxwell blinked at him, eyed him carefully, and something horridly foul and pitiful in his chest twisted viciously as Wilson sniffled again, huffed out what sounded like a last trailing sob, and his own rattling hiss of an exhale and inhale seemed so loud in his ears, for this brief little moment as he started to make his move.

It made him freeze, when Wilson cringed from his scooted approach, but then the man shook his head again with more strength, rubbed his eyes and shook out the tears that had smeared on his dull claws, a small nod of a go ahead, and Maxwell finally settled carefully by his partners side. Wilson didn't look at him, didn't even take a half glance, and his claws tightened on his trousers, then bedding, shaky breathes still attesting to the half remembered night terrors as they floated, haunted about.

He didn't like to push it, take chances or risks when it came to this, but Wilson didn't shrug him off, didn't push him away as his arms gently circled about the mans shrunken down, shivering form. Guiding him half close, leaned against his lap but not quite there yet, and the cold in him curdled in on itself when Wilson whimpered, a soft sound before dull claws curled around and his partner twisted as to grab at him as well, digging into his loose undershirt with a sudden firm movement, pulling the both of them together and close as he buried his face against Maxwell's shoulder.

"...I...I am so sorry, love." Maxwell murmured into his ear, holding him close, careful as he could be-

For all that Wilson has lived, all he has done in this hellish world, the man sometimes just felt so _fragile_ in Maxwell's hands.

Wilson didn't reply at first, just tightened his grip, shifted and held closer, and his shivers subsided, his shaky breathing evening into half hiccuped sounds, half sobbed exhales and inhales.

"Just a nightmare, Wilson, just a bad dream." His gloved hands had moved, one going to rub soothingly to his partners back, the other keeping a close, stable hold together, and the man trembled fitfully before turning his head and burying his face against Maxwell's neck.

"You were _**there**_." He hissed, low and shaky and thick with fears, exhausted terrors the man couldn't fight back against just yet, and Maxwell's stomach dropped at those words, bitter shame and grief flooding his chest and drowning that thing inside him with it all. "You were _**there**_ , and you, you…"

Something heavy lumped in Maxwells throat, a disgusted thing as his own memories tried to be called forth, _of course he had been there, he had always been there, always in the backdrop of the gentleman scientists night terrors, those deep dark nights of haunting and sadism and torture, give the King what he wants and things will get easier-_

"...Just a nightmare." A part of him wanted to pull away, untangle and try to distance, try to explain it all, give an excuse, but in the end that was all it was, an excuse. 

Just a nightmare, but one that has happened, long ago, and will haunt them both till the end of their days. 

"...Just a bad dream." Maxwell said, quietly, and his partner clung to him, exhaled a shuddering weak breath, pressing his damp face to his shoulder, to thin shirt fabric and his wrinkled soft throat. "It's all over now, Wilson."

He wished he could bring more comfort, promises and soft soothing, but the words strangled in his throat and Maxwell knew he had no right to say such things, even to his partner. He was the reason for such nightmares, after all.

He deserved no such assurances, when his partner still dreamed of horror and agony and found Maxwell's old face the exact match of all the suffering inflicted upon him. 

What a terror to awaken to, Maxwell thought tiredly to himself, and Wilson clung to him like an anchor, shaky breaths softening as the seconds passed by, the dream fading away. It would be back again, soon enough, and the dark tides inside Maxwell's chest grew thicker, sodden and decaying as he pressed his face into that wild greasy hair, dark eyes closed, and wished with all that he had left that he had never done such terrible things, made such awful choices as to harm the one he felt the most for. 

Wilson clung to him, dozing off into a more restful sleep in his arms, and Maxwell stayed awake, long into the dark night, with nothing but his ever darkening spiraled thoughts to keep him company.


End file.
